The Dex Files
by MonSolo23
Summary: AU, set after Season 2. Dexter writes a letter to Deb that explains everything, to be opened after his death.
1. The Letter

**Dexter and Debra were created by Jeff Lindsay. I have no rights to the characters, but the story is mine. Mine, mine, I tell you, all mine! Mwahahahaaaa!**

**Author's note: This is basically going to be a collection of one-shots that all tie together. It starts 2 months after the end of Season 2.**

Dexter Morgan sat at his desk, staring at the blank sheet of paper. He had to do this. It was time to tell everything. He recalled the night when he'd almost told Debra, nearly two months ago. Back before the Bay Harbor Butcher case was officially closed, and his least favorite moniker had been officially retired. Since then, he'd come to realize that his sister deserved the truth. But could she handle it?

He'd decided to write her a letter. The envelope was already marked: "To Debra Morgan, to be opened in the event of Dexter Morgan's death." That way, she'd learn the truth and he wouldn't have to deal with the consequences. But why did he want to write it in the first place? Maybe it was still some deep-seated desire to have his secret known to someone, which of course was too dangerous as long as he was still around to get caught. Pen in hand, Dexter began writing.

_Deeply Devoted Debra, _

_I've built my entire life on a carefully crafted card castle of lies and deception. Now that I'm Dearly Departed Dexter, it's time that you knew the truth. Forget everything you think you know about me. There's so much you don't know, that nobody knows. Beyond my penchant for alliteration, there are deep and dark secrets that I've spent a lifetime hiding from the world. I've never shared my whole story with anyone. Some people know bits and pieces. But the consequences were too great for me to tell everything. Of course, now I'm beyond consequences._

_I've wanted to tell you before. I almost did, once. But this needs to be you decision. If you're happy remembering me as the devoted brother, loving boyfriend, dedicated forensics expert, I'm beyond trying to convince you otherwise. But when you're ready for the truth, read on._

_I've always known that I was different, but for the longest time I didn't know why. You know that I didn't remember anything from before Harry took me in. I remember now, though. Things all started coming back to me when we were working on the Ice Truck Killer case. Harry found me at the crime scene where my mother was murdered. I'd seen the whole thing and spent two days covered in her blood. I also had a brother named Brian. Don't bother looking for him; as of press time, Brian has been dead for a while. The police ruled it a suicide._

_What happened to me that day changed something inside of me. There's a darkness in my soul. It's something I can't escape. Harry saw the darkness inside of me, but he loved me in spite of it. That was when our training began. That's why he spent so much time with me when we were growing up. He knew I needed his help more than you did. And he was trying to protect you. From me._

_Harry taught me the importance of pretending to be normal, how to fit in, how to fake any emotion. I grew up not feeling anything, but pretending to fit in to a normal family. Up until recently I would have said that I'm still pretending, that I can't feel anything at all. But I wonder how long you can pretend to believe something before you begin to believe it yourself. It's strange to have people like you, and Rita and the kids, who trust me and depend on me and even love me. I've gotten so good at faking it that I can fool almost anyone. If it wasn't for Doakes, I'd have a perfect record. Go me._

_But that's not the only part of the darkness inside me. I have violent urges. Harry knew about those too. He thought I could learn to control them, but I can't. There's no easy way to say this, so I'm just going to come out and say it: I kill people. But only murderers. Harry taught me the rules, how to keep from getting caught, how to choose my victims. I've always followed Harry's code. I've never hurt an innocent person in my life. _

_The guilty, on the other hand, get chopped up in pieces, packed into garbage bags, and tossed into the ocean. Sounds familiar, right? Yes, Deb, I was the Bay Harbor Butcher (God, I hate that name!). I seriously considered telling you, but I didn't think you'd take it well._

_I didn't kill Doakes. That was never part of my plan. I just wanted to frame him. I wouldn't have even had to do that if he hadn't found me out. I suppose I didn't do much to help things. It was obvious that he hated me, but I knew how to play the game. I provoked him and made everyone think he was losing it. The more he protested, the less they listened._

_Then he broke into my apartment and stole the box of slides. I kept it hidden behind the cover of the air conditioner. Then Doakes ran off and they found the box in his car, where it was promptly turned over to Forensics. I swear I had nothing to do with that. I was convinced they were about to arrest me right up until the moment they told me to analyze "Doakes's" box. Conveniently, there were no fingerprints on it anywhere._

_Forensics is the ideal job for a criminal. The police trust you with evidence. _

_But getting back to Doakes, I wasn't sure what to do about him. I couldn't kill him; I couldn't let him live. He followed me out to the Everglades. I was actually holding him hostage when Lila found him. He, of course, told her everything. She responded by turning on the gas and the stove and driving away._

_I responded to that by tracking her down in Paris. She was a liability, and it even fit within the Code. You can't argue that she didn't deserve it._

_Actually, that whole fiasco wasn't the first time I was afraid of discovery. My work caught the eye of the Ice Truck Killer. He pulled up one of my bodies and left it for the police. A woman involved in human trafficking named Valerie Castillo._

_Do you remember that one? You've always had good instincts, Deb. Sometimes too good. You were so convinced that it was someone trying to copy the Ice Truck Killer. Technically I'd argue he was copying me, but we can overlook that detail. It took some planning and tampering with evidence, but I managed to convince everyone that the husband did it. Sorry. _

_If it makes you feel any better, he wasn't in any condition to complain._

_So now you know. It's not the whole story, but it's more than I've ever shared with anyone else. _

_Take care, Deb. If I could feel love, I'd love you._

Dexter sat back and looked at his work. He read over the letter again. Was he right to leave out as much as he had? But Deb didn't need to know everything. Like the fact that the Ice Truck Killer and Dexter's brother Brian were the same person, or how things had really ended between them. She definitely didn't need to know about Harry's suicide. Dexter hadn't gone anywhere near that one. Had he said too much already? It was impossible for Dexter to predict her reaction. He considered for a moment, then signed his name at the bottom.

Yes, one day Debra would know Dexter's dirty secrets. Too bad he wouldn't be around to discuss them with her.


	2. The Conversation

**Dexter's POV**

Deb took another pull of beer and glared at the bottle as though it was the cause of her problems. "Can you believe it, Dex? That little shithead actually walked."

The little shithead in question was a man by the name of George Mulligan. He'd been arrested after his wife's disappearance. Actually, the arrest hadn't come until they found her head buried in his garden. But Mulligan had a good lawyer, and friends in high places with low morals. Apparently in Miami, you can buy your way out of a murder conviction.

I wanted to tell my sister that Mulligan would get what was coming to him. He was about to stand trial in an entirely different court. One that didn't acknowledge any of Florida's legal loopholes. It was highly efficient. Judge, jury, and conviction were all covered in a matter of minutes. The execution, however, would take much longer.

"Fuck," Deborah continued. "For the first time I almost understand why he did it."

I snapped out of my thoughts. "Who, Mulligan?" I asked, confused.

"God, no. I meant…Doakes," she admitted, sounding slightly shamed. "I mean, what he did was seriously fucked up. And I know you hated his guts. But our so-called justice system isn't exactly perfect either. And Mulligan's _wife_…Dex, he cut off her fuckin' _head._ Guys pull shit like that and get away with it, and it makes me so _mad…_If he was standing here right now, I'd probably shoot him."

I stared at my sister, enthralled. I'd never seen this side of her before. For a wild moment, I contemplated going to get the letter I'd written and hidden in my desk drawer. The one that explained everything. Maybe Deb was ready for the truth.

Then she spoke again with a humorless laugh. "God, what would Dad say if he could hear me right now?"

_Rule number one: Don't get caught._

No, I couldn't let Deb know. It was one thing for her to almost speak well of Doakes now, when his supposed "reign of terror" had been over for months. But would she still stand by that position if she knew the real killer was standing in front of her? The risk was too great. "He might actually agree with you," I ventured cautiously. "You remember how mad he'd get when someone got away."

My sister snorted. "There's a big difference between getting pissed off and going off to _murder_ someone," she pointed out. "And anyway, Doakes wasn't doing it to make the world a better place. He was completely fucked in the head. You saw what he did to those bodies. He _enjoyed_ it. Chopping people up was his goddam hobby."

_Slightly more dangerous than bowling_, I thought. But Deborah didn't understand after all. I considered the people who'd seen behind the mask. The ones who got to see my inner darkness. Harry understood it to a point, but it had ultimately destroyed him. Doakes had never understood. As if he'd needed another reason to hate me.

Rudy—Brian—had understood. And Lila. Ultimately, what they couldn't handle was how I could be so human. In the end, I'd had to destroy them. I was too human for the other monsters, and too much of a monster to ever be understood by the humans.

It was almost enough to make me feel lonely.

But there was no time to worry about that now. I had bigger fish to fry. It was time for some Mulligan stew. "Mulligan will get what he deserves," I said absently.

"Don't tell me you believe in all that karma bull-crap," Deborah pleaded.

I snapped my head up. I'd almost forgotten she was still here. "Well, everyone's gotta die sometime, right?" I explained lamely.

"Was that optimism?" Deb jabbed. I flashed her the appropriate smile: acknowledging her humor, slight embarrassment. "Whatever. I hope Mulligan burns in hell."

A question sat on the tip of my tongue: _Do you think Doakes is burning in hell right now?_ But I didn't ask it.

All things considered, I'd rather not know.

**A/N: I'm not sure exactly how to classify this story...potentially these earlier chapters could all be taken as one-shots, but they definitely all tie together. And I do have a plot in mind. Anyway, thanks to everyone who reviewed! Coming in chapter 3: Dexter kills Mulligan--but who else is watching?**


	3. Playtime

_One of my reviewers pointed out an error to me, so I decided to go back and fix chapter 3. I'd kind of forgotten/never noticed that Dexter only goes after SERIAL killers (not just the one-time guys) so I added in another dead ex-wife for Mulligan._

**Dexter's POV**

I excused myself from Deb's apartment as soon as I could, claiming fatigue from a long day. The drive to Mulligan's apartment was short and quiet. The street was deserted except for a black convertible parked across the street. Mulligan owned a house on the other end of town, and nobody knew that he rented this dump as well. The apartment was something I'd turned up in my research; a venture inside revealed his underground business: a meth lab. _Perfect._ Drug dealers always had enemies; his disappearance would be written off as a drug deal gone bad once the police got everything figured out.

I'd been watching him for weeks to determine his schedule. He only spent one night a week at the apartment—Tuesdays—and spent the rest of the time at his house on the other side of town. I checked the digital clock on the dashboard: 8:45. Mulligan would show up in exactly 15 minutes.

I picked the lock to his apartment again and sat to wait for him. I'd set up a kill room in the basement the week before, behind a locked door. He walked in at precisely 9:02. As soon as he opened the door, I grabbed him and held his arm behind his back.

"Holy shit!" he cried. "Look, Croswell, I'll get the money for you by Friday," he pleaded.

"This isn't Croswell," I told him. "I'm not here for money." He struggled, but I held him fast. My other hand squeezed his windpipe. I let go of his arm for a moment to grab the syringe in my pocket.

"What the hell do you want?" he cried, panicked.

The Dark Passenger smiled. "I'm here about your wife," I answered as the needle slid into his neck. His body tensed in panic for a few moments before the drugs kicked in and his body went limp in my arms. I dragged him down the stairs to the basement and got ready for the real work to begin.

It's always so predictable to watch my playmates wake up: the first flash of panic as they realize something's wrong, the struggled thrashing against their bindings, the cry of fear. But once they begin talking, things get more interesting. Mulligan was no different. "Why do you care about my wife?" he spat at me. "Why should you care if that bitch is dead?"

He will neither confirm nor deny that he murdered her. But I know he did. "You got away from the police," I told him. "You bought your way out of the justice system. But there's another justice system, higher than the courts, and it's not ruled by money."

"You have some kinda God complex or something?" he asked. There was a sharp cry as the scalpel cut into his cheek. I collected my compulsory drop of blood, watching it spread as I put the other glass slide on top. Suddenly, the look was in his eyes, the look of sheer terror that would soon be followed by defeat, as he realized he wouldn't be leaving this room alive. "You'll never get away with this!" he cried.

"But I have," I answered, turning around to grab the framed photographs. "I've been doing this for years, you know. Ridding the world of killers like you."

"Please, I didn't mean to kill her," he pleaded. "I won't do it again. Just please, let me go!"

Convincing. I might almost believe him. "You decapitated her," I reminded him. "That's very hard to do by accident." I should know. "Why'd you do it, George? What did Julie ever do that made you decide to slice off her head?"

He gasped at the use of his wife's name. "She—she was cheating on me," he stammered. "When I found out, I don't know, I was high, and I just got so mad…" His voice is droning; the façade is slipping.

"Uh-huh. Is that what you said about Claire, too?" A look of pure horror crossed his face. "Oh, yes, George, I know about your first wife." That shut him up. There was nothing left to converse about with George Mulligan, so I decided to change topics by cutting off his big toe on the right foot. The sound of his scream was much more interesting than the droning of his voice.

The full, fat moon was high in the sky when I walked back to my car, carrying the remains of George Mulligan in my trusty garbage bags. As we drove off, I glanced back at Mulligan's apartment building. Someone was heading up the steps, probably returning from a long night of partying. We'd both had an immensely fulfilling evening.

I got back to my apartment around five in the morning. Just enough time to grab a few hours' sleep before heading back to work. My other job. I parked in my normal space, next to a black convertible, and headed up to my apartment. The Dark Passenger was at peace, and the Dark Defender could rest.


	4. Nighttime

**A/N: Sorry this chapter took so long! I haven't forgotten about this story; I had the HARDEST time getting this scene right. Hope you like (and if you hate it, that's okay too). Please let me know what you think!**

Dexter parked in front of Rita's house. "Last stop, everybody out," he announced.

"Thank you for the pizza, Dexter," Astor said quietly, shyly. Cody, sitting next to her, nodded in agreement.

"No problem," he answered.

"Mom, can Dexter stay for a while?" Cody asked.

"Sure, honey," Rita responded. She turned to Dexter. "Is that all right? Can you stay?"

"My schedule's free," he assured her. They all got out of the car and headed towards the house. None of them heard the black convertible pulling up behind Dexter's car. Nobody saw the tall, portly man jump out. But everyone saw him running towards Dexter, pointing a gun right at his head.

"What the fuck did you do with Mulligan?" he shouted. He was about 6 foot 4, Rita estimated, and his face was covered by a ski mask.

Rita gasped. "Dex, what's going on?" she asked.

Dexter's eyes never left the man's face. "Rita, get the kids inside," he said firmly. His tone left no room for argument.

"Nobody move!" the man demanded. "Mulligan owed me three grand for that last batch. Now it's on your head unless you tell me where he is."

Dexter nodded slowly. "Let them go. They have nothing to do with this," he urged.

The man considered this for a minute, and finally nodded. He kept the gun pointed squarely at Dexter's chest. "Don't you dare call the fucking police," he warned Rita.

"Who are you?" Rita cried. "What do you want?"

"Get the kids inside," Dexter repeated, still staring at the man.

"All—all right," Rita stammered. "Come on, kids, let's go inside." She turned, and they followed silently.

Rita heard Dexter's voice as they headed towards the house. "There must be some mistake," he told the man.

"Like hell!" he protested. "I saw you in Mulligan's apartment on Sunday night. Mulligan went in, but he ain't come out. Where is he? I need my fuckin' three grand, man."

The next thing Rita heard was the sharp bang as the gun fired. "Dexter!" she cried, spinning around to see what had happened. Dexter was laying on the ground in a pool of blood, and the tires on the black convertible screeched loudly as the man drove away.

Everything froze for one horrible moment. This couldn't be happening, Rita thought. It just couldn't. "Astor, go call 911," she said in a daze. She looked over to Dexter. It looked pretty bad. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog from her brain. "What happened? Where were you shot?" she asked him.

Feebly, Dexter gestured towards his side, where the bullet wound was bleeding profusely. "Cody, don't look at me," he pleaded, his voice strained. Startled, Rita noticed that her son was sitting on the ground next to Dexter. "Don't look, Cody. Go inside." He struggled for breath.

Cody didn't move. "Are you gonna die too? Like my daddy?" he asked, his voice plaintive.

"The ambulance is on the way," Rita said shakily. It didn't convince anyone. "Cody, sweetheart, go wait inside with your sister," she repeated. Cody glanced back and forth between his mom and her boyfriend, and finally got up and walked away.

"It won't…it won't be here in time," Dexter stammered. "Call Deb…tell her I…tell her…goodbye."

"No!" Rita cried. She grabbed his hand. "You can't die, Dexter. You can't."

The rest of the night blurred together in Rita's mind: the ambulance screaming down the street. The babble of doctors frantically rushing to save him. The sad face of the one who told her, "He's gone."

The cops, Dexter's colleagues and friends, standing around in shock. Deb's never-ending stream of increasingly colorful language. "Who the goddamn motherfucking fuck would want to kill my brother? Why the holy fucking shit did this happen?"

Her feeble attempts to explain what had happened to her children. Astor cried for nearly an hour. Cody just stared at her in silence, his face showing nothing.

Four days later, Dexter Morgan was buried on a bright, hot Florida morning.

**Next chapter: Deb uncovers something shocking in her brother's apartment...**

**Flames will be used to destroy the evidence!**


	5. Revelation

**A/N: Sorry it's been so long! "The Dex Files" is back, minus its title character, as Deborah discovers her brother's legacy...**

"Why the hell did you have to go and get yourself killed, Dex?" Deborah asked for the millionth time in four weeks. She was sitting in her brother's apartment, sorting through his stuff. Scratch that; now it was all _her _shit. Aside from his van and some money he'd left to Rita and the kids, Dexter had left everything to her in his will. Deb had been shocked. Not that he'd written her into his will, but that he'd even had a will in the first place. Didn't people wait until they were ready to die before writing those things?

She'd spent the last four weeks in what seemed like a nightmare, and she was still waiting to wake up. Dexter _couldn't_ die. Without him, she'd be alone. He understood her better than anyone in her life ever had. They'd had a bond that was closer than most siblings, and they weren't even related by blood. So Deb was trying to deal by telling herself that none of this was real. Any minute, he was going to come in and say, "Hey, Deb. What the hell are you doing here?"

Except he wasn't. He would never walk into the office with donuts for everyone, or listen to her bitch for an hour and a half, or take Rita and her kids out for pizza…Deb brushed a tear away angrily. "Goddam motherfucking dust," she spat at nobody in particular. With a sigh, she continued sorting through the papers in Dexter's desk.

The bottom drawer was locked; she found the key in the drawer above, all the way in the back. Deb unlocked the drawer and looked inside. At first, it seemed like all the rest, with nothing particularly interesting. But at the very bottom was an envelope with her name on the front: _To be opened by Deborah Morgan in the event of Dexter Morgan's death._

Deb snorted. "What's this?" she muttered, and tore the envelope open. She wasn't sure what to expect—maybe old photos—hell, maybe even a treasure map. But all that was inside was a letter, written in Dexter's unmistakable script. _Deeply Devoted Deborah_, it began.

Deb laughed again, a short humorless noise. "You're a fuckin' poet, Dex." She kept on reading. She finished, and then read it again. And again. And again, each time willing the words to change, knowing that they couldn't.

_Forget everything you think you know about me…_

_If you're happy remembering me as the devoted brother, loving boyfriend, dedicated forensics expert, I'm beyond trying to convince you otherwise…_

_Harry found me at the crime scene where my mother was murdered…_

_Harry saw the darkness inside of me, but he loved me in spite of it… And he was trying to protect you. From me…_

_I have violent urges. Harry knew about those too. He thought I could learn to control them, but I can't…_

_I was the Bay Harbor Butcher…_

_If I could feel love, I'd love you…_

"Holy fuck," Deb whispered. She closed her eyes and looked at the letter again. No, the words were still there. It was too much to deal with at once.

"No fuckin' way, Dex. _No way._ I _knew_ you. This is some kinda sick fuckin' joke, isn't it?" But in a way, it almost made some sort of sense. Except that it was impossible. Not her brother. She held the letter up to tear it in half, into a million tiny pieces that would blow away like his ashes after the funeral. Then she stopped. She read the letter again.

_The box of slides…I kept it hidden behind the cover of the air conditioner._ Deb walked into the kitchen. She'd disprove this crazy little story right now. "The cover probably won't even come off," she told herself. "I'll have to find his goddam toolbox for a screwdriver…did he even _own_ a toolbox?" But the cover slid right off, and Deb gasped in surprise. Someone had already removed the screws.

She should've known then. But nothing prepared her for the shock of what she saw next: a small dark wooden box, a little longer than a sheet of paper and about half as wide. "What the fuck?" she breathed. With trembling fingers, Deborah pulled the box out and set it on the counter. She stared at it, afraid to open it.

After debating for what seemed like an eternity, she reached over and touched the box delicately, as if it were a bomb about to go off. She flipped the cover open in a swift, fluid motion.

It wasn't empty, like she'd been hoping it would be. No, it contained something.

Glass slides. Nearly two dozen of them.

Deb barely made it to the bathroom before her breakfast came back to haunt her.

**I'm planning on doing at least one more chapter, and maybe more. Thanks for all of the great feedback I've gotten on this story!**


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